I Am Five
by Pachamama9
Summary: Five-year-old Draco Malfoy has to sit at a fancy dinner with his parents, but all he wants to do is go play. One-shot.


**A/N: A fic about five-year-old Draco Malfoy.**

 **If You Dare Challenge - #624 (Wish)**

 **Are You Crazy Enough To Do It Challenge - #148 (peach)**

 **Character Diversity Boot Camp - #37 (squeamish), Draco Malfoy**

 **Fanfiction Writing Month: October [744]**

 **Disclaimer: JK Rowling owns Harry Potter.**

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I squirm in the chair, squeamish and uncomfortable. I don't want to be here. I want to play exploding snaps with Blaise. My hair is slicked all the way back, and I do not like it. I reach up to mess it up to what I like, but my father slaps my hand away. "Behave, Draco," he hisses. "This is a very important dinner." As soon as he is finished scolding me, he smiles at the guests to let them know how perfect everything is. They do not smile back.

I groan. My shirt is too itchy, my pants are too tight, my shoes are uncomfortable... "Mummy, can I go play now?" I ask, getting on my knees to whisper in my mother's ear. I wished I was outside, not in front of these weird people. They were all dressed in dark, ugly clothes, wearing dark, ugly smiles. I wanted Mummy's pretty smile, not her fake one. "Can I go?"

She shakes her head, touching my face. "Not yet, darling." I know that she does not want to be here any more than I do. Two large hands grab me by my upper arms and sits me back down in the black leather chair. "Don't kneel on your chair," orders Father. "It's disrespectful." I fold my arms and scowl. I don't want to be here. I don't want to be here. I don't want to be here. "Now, Mr. Goyle, what were you saying?"

The large man sitting across from my father begins to speak. He looks like a pig. I screw my face up to mimic the movements his skin makes when he talks. Father gives me a warning poke with his wand. I frown and stare at my plate. I hate scallops. I hate scallops. I hate scallops. I prod them individually and scrape the plate with my fork. Across from my mother, a man with a dark gaze and even darker clothing glares at me. His eyes make me feel uncomfortable. I jerk my eyes back down to the plate and stab a scallop. I pretend that it is just me and Mother sitting at the table, and that we are playing the game where I make claws like a bear and pretend that the plate is my human sacrifice and I ravage the entire meal.

"Draco!" Father shoves the plate away from me. "Stop that right now!" He's never been this angry, I think. He grabs me by my arm. Ow. "Excuse me, gentlemen." He pulls me up—ow, ow, ow—and yanks me into the foyer. My mother follows, saying "Lucius, Lucius, please—"

He grabs the front of the shirt that my mother ironed perfectly. "You do not make a fool of me in front of my guests!"

"Lucius, don't—" My mother grabs his arm, but he shakes her off.

"This is an important meeting, Draco, you idiot boy!" He snatches a napkin from the counter and roughly wipes the food off of my face. "You don't play stupid games while I am trying to impress my—" He stops, and his angry steps move away from me now. He places one hand on his head as if he is tired of yelling. My mother tries to move forward to comfort him, and he whips around and slaps her across the face.

I think the guests can hear us. It was very, very loud. "If you hadn't taught him that _stupid_ game," he accused, gripping her upper arms, "then this wouldn't have happened!"

I back up against the wall. I don't know what's going on. I don't know what's happening. "Lucius, you—" He hits her again. Mummy's face is the color of her peach dress. I squeeze my eyes shut.

"And you," he says. I don't know how long it's been. "You've ruined the entire night! You have to act like an adult! You can't screw everything up!"

I am five, I think. I am five. I am five. One, two, three, four, five. I have to act like a grown-up? Grown ups are _old_. One, two, three, ten... I can't I look up at him, confused, when he hits me like he hit Mother. It hurts a lot more than I thought it would, and I burst into tears. It stings.

"No!" cries my mother, and she throws herself in front of me. Father's ring made a nasty scratch in her cheek. "Not my son, Lucius. Not my son."

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 **A/N: Thanks for reading! Please let me know what you think!**


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